


Living Ain't A Simple Thing

by akire_yta



Series: prompt ficlets [224]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:33:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6245377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>@heartsnbruises asked for the MimB meme: SAINTS ROW, AND RANDOM NUMBER 15.  Which evoked the "I don't know that one, so you get whatever I can glean off wikipedia in five minutes" clause</p>
<p>Track #15 - Electra Made Me Blind by Everclear</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living Ain't A Simple Thing

You awake slowly, in stages.  You have no idea how many times consciousness skips above the surface – there is no way to count, to external metric.  The steady beep-beep of a heart monitor, the indistinct murmur of voices, the scent of chemicals and stale air in your nose.

It’s easier to stay low.  It’s always easier to stay low.

A rhythm slowly establishes itself.  The nurse who wears the perfume checks your vitals in the morning; the nurse with the heavy footfalls repeats the check in the evening.  Neither are particularly rigorous – this is routine, they expect no variation, no surprise.

There are people nearby always, but the sense of being shoved in a corner, forgotten, comes early on.

When the murmur eases, and the lights go down, you risk opening your eyes.  Prison is prison, no matter where, no matter when.  Cinderblock walls and distant screams.

Four days later, the fates smile.  The one with the perfume has light fingers on your wrist, checking what the machines are saying.  There’s a distance shout, sounds of a commotion.  She turns, never feeling the keys lift from her belt.

The theft will be discovered soon enough.  By then, all they’ll find is an empty bed, an empty staff locker, a missing knife.

They’ll follow the trail of blood to the door, but they’ll be too late, too late.


End file.
